When She Was Wicked

Chapter Fourteen

Anabelle fled the kitchen, and in the hallway almost bumped into Olivia, returning with Owen’s brandy.

“Where are you going?” Olivia called.

“To bed. Thanks for a wonderful evening.” Anabelle was already halfway up the stairs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” When she reached her room, she locked her door, splashed her face with cool water, and took several deep breaths.

Owen wouldn’t risk coming to the workroom in the wee hours of the morning.

Would he?

Beyond tired, but doubtful she’d be able to sleep, she forced herself to change into her nightgown, brush out and braid her hair, and climb into bed. If he came to her door, she’d simply pretend to be asleep.

Half an hour later, she heard the girls shuffle upstairs and settle into their rooms. Another half hour passed. Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all.

He probably viewed their earlier conversation as playful flirtation and would have no recollection of it tomorrow. Ignoring the stab of disappointment in her belly, she fluffed her pillow, flipped to her side, and squeezed her eyes shut. Thank heaven he had the common sense to go to his bed and stay away from hers. No good could come from his silver-tongued compliments and knee-buckling kisses. Dwelling on the duke’s broad shoulders and smoldering eyes only distracted her from her objective: fulfilling her end of the deal so she could return home.

To make herself drowsy, she counted stitches in her head—the simple, boring kind that wound round and round. Her breathing slowed, the wine relaxed her muscles, and sleep beckoned.

The soft knock on her door nearly made her jump out of her skin.

“Belle.”

Foolishly, her heart leapt at the sound of his voice. He was in the workroom, thankfully, and not in the hallway where his sisters might hear him. Covering her head with a pillow, she reminded herself of the plan. Ignore the knocking. Feign sleep.

But the next sound was more of a thumping. “Anabelle, I know you’re not asleep.”

He could not possibly know that. She buried her head deeper and hummed softly to drown out his voice.

When the thumping turned to pounding, she bolted out of bed, dashed to the door, and hauled it open. “Are you trying to wake the entire household?”

“Just you.” His boyish grin melted the edges of her resolve. “It would take a thunderbolt from Zeus himself to wake my sisters, and the staff has retired for the night. I would never take foolish risks with your reputation.”

The soft sincerity of his tone warmed her.

“Now,” he said wickedly, “come out and play.”

She shook her head firmly. “I can’t.”

“Want me to come in?”

“No!” She closed the door all but a crack and spoke through it. “I have to work tomorrow, and seeing as how you’re a duke, you must have responsibilities as well. Go to bed.”

“Do you know what your problem is?”

How dare he imply she was the one with problems? “Enlighten me.”

“You work too hard.” He reached through the crack and tugged playfully on her sleeve. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” Mischief gleamed in his eyes, and candlelight glowed in the workroom behind him.

“What have you done? Please tell me you haven’t moved the panels that were laid out on the long table or touched the fabric on the shelf because I had it arranged just so, and—”

“Trust me.” He gently but firmly pushed the door open and pulled her into the workroom.

Only, it didn’t feel like the workroom.

The soft quilt that he’d wrapped around her shoulders the morning before had been spread in the center of the floor. A large candelabrum rested on a stack of atlases to one side, and pillows from the window seat were strewn around the blanket. Without her spectacles, the whole room was blurry and pleasantly dreamlike. The window sash was raised, the night breeze sweetening the air with grass and honeysuckle. Outside, leaves rustled, insects chirped, and the occasional bird trilled in a natural, soothing cadence.

Anabelle’s breath hitched in her throat. He’d done this for her.

“See? I didn’t disturb anything,” he said proudly.

“What is all this for?”

He led her to the blanket. “Sit and I’ll show you.”

Although she was suspicious, she did as he asked, drawing her bare feet beneath the hem of her nightgown. Owen shed his jacket; his dark green waistcoat was unbuttoned, revealing a fine white shirt, untucked from his breeches. He sat behind her, so close that his warm breath fanned her neck.

“I have noticed,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, “that you are constantly holed up in this room, working. You spend too much time hunched over ball gowns. Too little time wearing them.”

She stifled a laugh. He should know that seamstresses didn’t own ball gowns.

“At the ball earlier, I kept wishing you were there. I imagined you in blue silk, chestnut tresses cascading over your shoulders, gray eyes sparkling. Every man would want you for his dance partner, Belle, but I’d be the one holding you, twirling you around the floor.”

Ridiculous. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but—

Oh my. His fingers kneaded the tight muscles just below her neck and around her shoulders, slowly, with just the right pressure to ease out the tension without causing pain.

Her eyes shut, her shoulders relaxed, and her head lolled forward. Heaven.

He tended to every spot that yearned for attention. She had only to wish for him to caress her neck and scalp, and he did. She merely thought it might feel nice if he were to massage the length of her spine, and he did. He lingered in the sensitive places, like the small of her back and the nape of her neck.

“Loosen this,” he whispered, plucking at the neck of her nightgown.

As though in a trance, she obeyed. Cool air roved over her exposed shoulders, and she shivered, craving the touch of his hands on her skin.

“God, Belle.” He skimmed his fingers down her neck and across her shoulder, and, with his mouth, traced the same path, wet and hot.

She fell further under his spell.

“Take out your braid,” he murmured against her skin.

She did his bidding, eager to prolong this pleasure. The ribbon slipped off easily, and she raked her fingers through her plaited hair until it flowed in soft ripples.

Owen buried his face in it, inhaling deeply. “You smell good. I wish you would wear your hair like this all the time.”

She chuckled. “And here I thought you were fond of my cap.”

“I’m fond of taking it off.”

“Mmmm.”

He pushed her hair in front of her shoulders and continued to stroke her back. His fingertips trailed over the thin fabric of her nightrail, across her shoulders, down her arms, up her sides, and down her spine again, leaving delicious goosebumps in their wake. In utter satisfaction, she arched her back and prayed he wouldn’t stop touching her.

“You are beautiful.” His hands drifted lower then, cupping her bottom and kneading it until she feared she’d melt into a puddle right there on the quilt.

He was so close to her, yet she could not see him, could only feel the heat from his body behind hers and his hands, which seemed to roam everywhere. “This feels… nice,” she breathed.

“Think of it as an appetizer, the soup before the roasted duck.” His hands skimmed across her hips, then around to caress the tops of her thighs. Moisture gathered between her legs, and tiny pulses of pleasure beat there. “I highly recommend the roasted duck. Will you try it?”

She leaned her head back against his shoulder. Here in the candlelight it was easy to forget the difference in their stations. They were just a man and a woman who liked each other and who, naturally, wanted to be together. The consequences of lying with him, however, were too great. Not only did she have to work for him for the next several weeks, but there could be a baby. And she did not wish to give her virginity to a man who would never consider marrying her. She had her pride.

With a sigh, she reached back to caress his neck as he nuzzled hers. “I can’t make love with you, Owen. It’s too risky.”

“I know. Just let me touch you and make you feel… amazing.” He kissed a spot under her ear that shot shivers through her limbs.

She didn’t want to say good night to him. Not yet. Trusting him to keep his word, she relented. “I suppose we could have one more course.”

With a growl of approval, he tugged the hem of her nightgown up and exposed the tops of her thighs. She wore nothing at all underneath her nightrail, and cool air kissed her skin, lingering on the damp curls between her legs. His fingertips caressed her thighs lightly, then slipped beneath her nightgown and around to her back. As though they had all the time in the world, he slowly rubbed her shoulders, back, and bottom. This time, no fabric separated him from her, and she knew the bliss of his hands on her skin.

“My God, you’re perfect. I want to explore every inch of you.” He slowly swept a hand up her side, grazing her breast. “Do you like this?”

Her breath hitched. “Yes.”

“Just wait.” He shifted closer until she was nestled between his thighs, her arms wrapped around her bent knees. Gently, he stroked her sides, coming closer and closer to her breasts, teasing her, until she thought she’d die if he did not caress them.

At last, he slipped his hands around and took the weight of her breasts, gently tweaking her erect nipples with his thumbs. All the while, he nibbled on her ear and shoulder.

A small cry escaped her. This exquisite pleasure, this lovely intimacy, was new to her. Oh, she would regret this in the morning, but it was impossible to do so now. Owen was completely intent on pleasing her, and she gave herself up to the moment. To him.

Her breasts had grown fuller during the two weeks she had been here. Delicious, plentiful meals and less walking had restored her natural curves. Owen seemed to approve.

The pulsing at her core demanded more, but she didn’t know what. She tried to turn and press her body against his, but he stilled her.

“I want to kiss you,” she said.

He let out a low, sultry chuckle. “Oh, there will be kissing. Later. Lean back against me.”

She did as he asked, sighing deeply and reveling in the hard warmth of his chest.

“That’s good. Now, keep your eyes closed, and think only of how good this feels—how good we are together.”

He hiked her nightgown up farther, so her legs were completely exposed. Slowly, he traced a path from her knees to her inner thigh, drawing little circles that made her muscles clench. With his other hand, he lightly squeezed her breast, teasing the nipple with his palm.

“Part your knees,” he said gruffly.

Anabelle swallowed. She had never let anyone touch her there. She didn’t even touch herself there. But she’d already crossed many lines tonight. What was one more?

Opening herself to him was akin to walking into a lion’s cage. But he’d never hurt her. More importantly, he’d stop the instant she asked him to—assuming she had the presence of mind to ask him.

He gently stroked her legs, his hands warm and soothing. When he ventured close to the curls covering her entrance, her muscles tensed.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. Of this.”

“I know.”

“Though it might seem strange, there’s something very right about you and me. Together. Do you feel it, too?”

The sincerity, the vulnerability, in his voice touched her soul. But he was wrong about this. They did not belong together—not truly. They were from different worlds, and when she was done with her job, she would return to hers.

His hands stilled as he awaited her answer.

She had to be truthful. “I don’t know if being with you is right. But I like it. I like you.”

He chuckled softly again. “I suppose that will have to do. For now.”

A breeze swept through the window, making the flames of the candelabrum flicker wildly. Shadows danced about the room, a cozy and rather perfect setting for an indiscretion of gigantic proportions. The house was so still she could imagine they were its sole inhabitants; so quiet that her soft sighs echoed in her ears. She lowered her eyelids and willed herself to relax as Owen did wicked—and wonderful—things to her body.

With deft, experienced fingers, he explored her slick folds and found the sensitive spot where all her yearning centered. She lost track of time as she surrendered to the desire that smoldered inside her, ignored for far too long. For once, she did not dwell on Mama’s health or paying their rent or having enough to eat. She only focused on Owen and the way he made her feel.

In his arms, she was no longer a seamstress, but a seductress.

The lovely things he murmured in her ear were as arousing as his touch. With him, she felt beautiful, desirable, and more. She felt cared for.

The room grew warmer and the musky scent of her body enveloped them. Her hips rose off his lap as she pushed against his hand, increasing the pressure on the nub that he expertly teased. He eased a finger into her, filling her, coaxing her closer to the edge. She moaned softly, desperate for release.

“I knew this passion was inside you,” he whispered. “You are everything I’d hoped.”

His words confused her. She wanted to turn around. Straddle him. Kiss him. But she balanced on a precipice so high that the tiniest movement could send her hurtling over. He seemed to understand.

He stroked the sweet spot faster and harder. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears and the muscles in her stomach clenched in wonderful anticipation. She cried out as her climax neared, unprepared for the strength of it. At last it overpowered her, wave after wave shuddering through her. She bucked against his hand as her pent-up passion found release.

She had never known it was possible to feel so powerful yet vulnerable, so corporeal yet ethereal, at the same time. And long after she returned to her real life, she would remember this night, and be grateful to Owen for showing her a side of herself she never knew existed.


Owen kissed Anabelle’s neck, inhaling the citrusy scent of her hair and savoring the taste of her satin skin. God, she was beautiful.

And he wanted her.

Beyond tonight.

Watching her climax had been the single most erotic experience of his life. She’d not only given herself up to pleasure, but actively pursued it.

Nothing could have aroused him more.

He held her close as her body relaxed and her breathing slowed. She wriggled around to face him, her hair a cloud of wild curls. Her cheeks glowed pink in the light of the candles, and her nightgown hung off her shoulder. As she smiled shyly at him, his already rock-hard rod twitched.

She’d beguiled him. In two weeks she’d evolved from a pale, bespectacled, tightly pinned-up seamstress into a siren capable of seducing any mortal. Or immortal.

Capable of seducing him.

Their budding relationship defied both convention and explanation. The only thing he knew with certainty was he didn’t want her going anywhere anytime soon.

She slipped her hands inside his unbuttoned waistcoat and pressed her palms against his chest. “That was… amazing. Completely ill-advised and worthy of regret tomorrow morning… but amazing, nonetheless.”

He loved that she said exactly what she was thinking. And that she’d called the experience amazing. He puffed out his chest and grinned. “Regrets are forbidden.”

She shot him a sultry, heavy-lidded look that made his breeches even tighter. “Fine. Then I guess I shall have no regrets about this.” She dragged the hem of his shirt up and raked her fingernails lightly over his chest. In one graceful motion she sat astride him, kissing him like her appetite had merely been whetted.

Good God.

He was sorely tempted to whisk her off to his bed and keep her there for the better part of a week. However, dawn would soon intrude and servants would roam the halls. He’d promised to protect her from any whisper of scandal. Gradually, he lowered the intensity of their kiss and pulled away, cupping her smooth cheeks in his hands. “The sun will be up within the hour, and you need to sleep.”

She smiled sheepishly. “I am tired—in a good way. I’m fond of the roast duck.”

He chuckled softly and kissed her forehead. How he’d love to sleep with her curled up next to him. He normally avoided cuddling, which was an obligation—like wearing stiff, formal breeches to a ball or attending the funeral of a little-known acquaintance. Yet, tonight, he felt cheated that his time with Anabelle was cut short.

He helped her stand, then, without warning, swept her up in his arms.

Laughing, she nestled into his chest as he carried her into her bedchamber. He laid her on the thick mattress, pulled the covers over her, and gave her one last long kiss.

“Owen, I meant to talk to you earlier about Olivia and Rose.”

“They’re not in imminent danger, are they?”

“Oh, no,” she reassured him.

“Then let it wait until later. Good night. You’re not to rise before eleven o’clock—understand?”

She yawned. “I’ll sleep for a couple of hours, but I don’t want to miss breakfast.”

“Good thinking.”

He laced his fingers through hers, and they gazed at each other for the space of several heartbeats. This was the moment when he should say how lovely she was or how much he cared for her. Although, he would think both things were painfully obvious by now, even if he was not the most demonstrative person.

He’d never met a more beautiful woman, and although he’d never been in love, it might be easy to love her. She was feisty, loyal, and honest—if one discounted the occasional extortion scheme.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her all that. Instead, he wrapped one of her tresses around a finger. “I’m not sure I’ll recognize you at breakfast with your spectacles and cap. I don’t suppose I could convince you to burn the cap?”

Her tired smile was tinged with disappointment. He felt like a cad.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Or, rather, later today.”

“Good night, Owen.”

He left through the door adjoining the workroom and set everything to rights before extinguishing the candles and skulking back to his room.

After shedding his clothes, he stretched out on his bed and closed his eyes, but the hurt look on Belle’s face haunted him.

He’d done the right thing. Hadn’t he?

Misleading her was the worst thing he could do, and their relationship couldn’t be anything more than stolen moments of pleasure and companionship. All in all, a much better arrangement than marriage. They’d never become bitter or grow tired of each other’s company. They’d simply enjoy their time together while it lasted.

But sleep didn’t come quickly. He kept counting damned dresses in his head, growing agitated each time he reached fifteen, the number Olivia had informed him Belle had yet to complete.

His time left with Belle was measured not in years or months or weeks.

It was measured in dresses.